Alliance
by Jack Lecter
Summary: CHAPTER TWO NOW UP! Bailey visits Jack in prison to discuss the murder of Samantha Waters. Inspired by Thomas Harris, NOT another stupid romance like the other Profiler fanfic
1. Default Chapter

Alliance  
  
By The Shadower  
  
Spoilers: Reunion, eventually, I think, if I have the name right. I'm not sure of any episode names because I only got interested in the show when it was cancelled with the reruns on Court TV.  
  
Rating: PG-13 for later chapters, Violence, maybe some gore, language. Later chapters may use F-word.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. There. I said it. Now ask yourself, was that really necessary?  
  
Feedback: If I don't get reviewed, I will either A: Never continue or post another chapter or B: Do everything you hate, kill off all the characters not already dead, ECT. Good and bad feedback appreciated, if you hate something about it, please review and let me know.  
  
AN: This is my first Profiler fic. It's AU starting the AU at the end of the episode I think is reunion, the last episode with Sam. I know there are some things at the beginning you may not like, but please hang in there. Also, thanks to Stephen King for the thought format. I borrowed that particular formatting trick from IT, and I think it works well here. Also, I'm going camping over the weekend so I won't have a chance to update until Monday. Finally, due to creative license, part of this is in the present tense while the rest is in the past. It means, nothing, its just creative license.  
  
Dedicated to Stephen King for the aforementioned format, and to Thomas Harris, for an inspiration obvious to anyone familiar with **The Silence of the Lambs**.  
  
2007  
  
Special Agent Bailey Malone of the CIA felt an odd chill as he stepped into the VCTF headquarters. It felt almost... familiar.  
  
He shook off the feeling and walked down the hall to the computer database. He had been a CIA agent, leader of a special ops team for as long as he could remember. According to his superior, he had been recruited off a police force in Maine, where he'd been a small town patrolman. Now, in the CIA, he was hunting career criminals and pattern killers, as well as undertaking some of the less lawful assignments.  
  
He felt another chill as he stepped into the computer database. He mentally pinched himself. He had never been here before. The computer technician turned to face him.  
  
(Where's George?)  
  
What was that? He didn't know anyone named George. The ID badge on the technician read SAMUEL WANDMAN. Wandman glanced up at him impatiently.  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
The voice was annoyed, as if Wandman couldn't imagine anything the slightly ruffled suit before him could have that was important enough to take valuable time better used playing computer games.  
  
"I need an address," Bailey said, not letting his anger at the technician's casual manner reach his voice.  
  
"I need the address of that woman killed out in the country. The one that might be the latest victim of White Ripper."  
  
The technician pressed a computer key and a name and address popped up on the screen. Bailey looked at the name- and froze.  
  
He felt the same chill of familiarity, mixed with a grief he couldn't explain. Somehow, he felt, he'd known this woman. Some thing in her name  
  
(Blonde hair)  
  
struck him as familiar.  
  
"Samantha Waters."  
  
He stared at the screen, groping desperately at a memory somewhere within his brain.  
  
"Used a knife on her," the technician said with the same casual voice he'd used earlier. This time Bailey wanted to strangle him for it. Instead, he turned to the door and  
  
(where's her daughter)  
  
walked away. He was walking to his car before he caught himself wondering if this  
  
(woman)  
  
victim had a daughter. He shook himself. This was business. He needed to get to work.  
  
"You're not working!"  
  
The order was a shout, almost a bark, but Bailey didn't object. Instead, he faced the short, balding man considered his superior with icy calm.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"The CIA has more important things to do than chase after some hitman! Pattern killers, we both know, the CIA is the only true prevention for. But contract killers, we'll leave those to the police."  
  
"Wasn't the dead woman an FBI agent, therefore making it our business?"  
  
Spalding turned, startled.  
  
"FBI agent? What on god's green earth gave you that idea?"  
  
"I- I think someone must have mentioned it to me  
  
(saw her)  
  
and I remembered it."  
  
"Well, I've got news for you, Malone. The dead woman was a dress designer. She'd moved to Maine six years ago. She had no history with the FBI, the CIA, or any other government agency I've ever heard of. So lay off."  
  
Bailey drives without knowing where he's going. He is only mildly surprised when he pulls up in front of the Washington Maximum Security Penitentiary. He opens the door to his car, gets out, and walks to the front desk. He does not know what he is doing, only that it feels right in a way he can't explain. He is operating on pure instinct.  
  
He feels almost as if the desk clerk should be familiar, but it's  
  
(Marcus)  
  
a complete stranger. He flashed his ID badge.  
  
"Bailey Malone to see prisoner 146."  
  
He says the number without thinking about it, without knowing what it means. He knows nothing. The number, once uttered, becomes as alien and unfamiliar as any other.  
  
The clerk consults a register.  
  
"Prisoner name?"  
  
(Jack)  
  
"John Doe."  
  
She motions him to follow, opens the door, and steps into the hall. Another door, this one thick and metal, opens on command and he follows her through it.  
  
And so Bailey Malone allows himself to be led into a dungeon darker than any other. A dungeon of the mind. He shudders as he hears the bolt slide home behind him. It sounds uncannily like the thud of a guiatine blade.  
  
AN: PLEASE REVEIW!!! IF I GET ENOUGH REVEIWS, GOOD OR CRITICAL, I MIGHT JUST ADD ANOTHER CHAPTER TOMMORROW BEFORE I GO CAMPING! 


	2. Chapter Two

Alliance  
  
By The Shadower  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Feedback: If I get enough, positive or negative, you'll see more of this story soon.  
  
Rating: PG-13. Language, some violence, emotional intensity. May use F-word in later chapters.  
  
Spoilers: No specific ones come to mind. Possibly some general ones but nothing major.  
  
AN: I won't go so far as to say John fans can't enjoy this, especially with the lack of Profiler fics these days. But don't expect me to like him, or to put him in a good role. I like Bailey and Jack a lot. I don't intend Rachel to have much if any role in this fic, but she is mentioned in this chapter. Also, again, thanks to Stephen King for the format, and parts of this are so obviously inspired by Thomas Harris, thanks to him too.  
  
The back of the cell was dark, almost too dark for Bailey to make out the man's face. As he looked he felt as though his memory were helping him, somehow. Filling in the gaps. Bailey had seen this man somewhere before.  
  
He stood looking for a full minute, before a hard voice came from the cell, echoing off the cement walls.  
  
"Bailey Malone. It's been a long time. Too long, I'd say."  
  
As he spoke, the man leaned forward and the light caught his face. He was about forty-five, and wiry. His cheeks were pockmarked, his cheekbones prominent. A shadow of a beard lingered over his slightly pointed chin.  
  
(It had been longer once.)  
  
His forehead was broad, his thin gray hair receding slightly, in a way that was somehow familiar.  
  
His eyes were sharp. There was a viciousness there, Bailey thought, the same primal animalism that had been there four years ago. But now there was something else as well. Anger.  
  
Bailey felt that those eyes had never held true anger before.  
  
(Not even when we caught him.)  
  
Bailey spoke, his voice not as calm as he would have preferred.  
  
"John Doe."  
  
There was amusement in  
  
(Jack)  
  
the man's eyes.  
  
"That's what it says on my record, Bailey. But you know better, don't you? You know my name, at least the name you gave me."  
  
"Jack."  
  
"That's right. How much do you remember, Bailey? Do you remember catching me? It wasn't just you, was it? Mostly Rachel, really, though Sam probably contributed something too. You do remember Rachel, don't you? And Sam?"  
  
Bailey stared at him, unsure how to respond.  
  
"And me?"  
  
Jack seemed to be enjoying himself.  
  
"You do remember me, don't you Bailey?"  
  
"You- I know you were a serial killer. I know I caught you, maybe with some others."  
  
"And what about Samantha, Bailey? Do you remember about Samantha?"  
  
"You were obsessed with her."  
  
Jack seemed almost to smile, but then his face was again cast into jutting shadows by the dim light, showing only rage.  
  
"That's right. I was obsessed with her and now she's dead. Have you been to your precious CIA about it? Have you asked them to help you find her killer?"  
  
"Samantha Waters was NOT a profiler. She was a dress designer."  
  
"Do you really believe that? They haven't let you investigate, have they? They're covering it up. They won't let you find the answers. THEY KILLED HER. They killed her, and you know it."  
  
Bailey didn't stop to ask why the CIA would want to kill Samantha Waters. He'd seen what they did to agents who tried to leave, people who knew too much.  
  
Was Samantha Waters one of those? Did she fall in that category?  
  
He was so absorbed in thought that he hadn't noticed Jack get up and move to within mere inches of the barrier separating the cell from the corridor.  
  
"Let me out," Jack said in an urgent, taunting whisper.  
  
"You can't trust anyone in the CIA now, same with the FBI. Think about it, Bail, who do you KNOW isn't involved in the murder of Samantha Waters?"  
  
He was right, of course. Bailey looked at the lock. So easy to break... it would be no challenge at all to break Jack out. But did he really want to? More importantly, could he?  
  
Could he release one of the most dangerous serial killers on the face of the planet to help him find Samantha's killer?  
  
(Blonde brown eyes high forehead)  
  
Her face came full blown into his mind, perfect in every detail. He took his gun out of its holster and blew the lock apart.  
  
An alarm sounded. Guards rushed to subdue him. He kicked one in the stomach. The guard hit the floor, his holster disconnecting on impact and sliding across the floor. Bailey turned to the other guard. The man was coming at him, hand on gun, authoritive expression fixed on face.  
  
A great red hole appeared in his forehead, blood spilling down onto his face. He fell.  
  
Jack began walking briskly toward the exit, pocketing the smoking gun he'd used on the guard, and nodding at Bailey to follow him. An expression of sadistic glee was fixed on his face.  
  
AN: Let me know if you like it, let me know if you don't, but if you don't let me know it won't be pretty. 


End file.
